Big Love Abroad (Big Girls Do It Book 11) by Wilder Jasinda

Author:Wilder, Jasinda [Wilder, Jasinda]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2015-04-14T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 7

For an educated woman I am such an idiot.

I totally panicked and bought a one-way ticket to Oxford.

Instead of dealing with my emotions like a responsible adult, or talking to Ian about everything, I’d packed my bags and snuck out of the flat in the wee hours of the morning. Left the keys to the flat on the counter. I didn’t even leave a note. So not only am I an idiot, but I’m a coward, too. I did the very thing Ian had done to me—but my reasons were not half as good as his.

But I just knew that if I’d stayed and talked to Ian about how I was feeling, he’d get me all mixed up, he’d charm me and make me feel like my fears and concerns were silly, nonsensical. Or worse, he’d acknowledge them as being totally legitimate, but then he’d talk me out of them and I’d stay with him in London and we’d fuck for a month straight and I’d fall in love and then he’d get tired of the chunky girl and go for someone skinnier and more glamorous, someone more in his league. Like Jessica Biel or Emma Watson. And then I’d end up lonely, a bitter cat lady without a degree, rather than a lonely, bitter cat lady with a degree. If I’m going to end up as a lonely, bitter cat lady, I might as well have a degree to show for it.

By running away from Ian, I felt I’d doomed myself because…deep down, some part of me just…recognized and understood what Ian was trying to tell me. Like, on a visceral level. And whatever it was we had, it felt real. Immediate, intense, and it scared me more than anything I’d ever experienced before. I ran away from it. I just knew, lying there beside him, listening to his casual but honest comments about loving my body shape, and then calling me sweetheart, that I’d never be able to walk away from him if I didn’t do it then. I’d get stuck. I’d get lost in him, get addicted to and obsessed with being in his arms, feeling him near me, kissing him, touching him, hearing him reaffirm that I am actually beautiful to him. I mean, Jesus, who wouldn’t get addicted to that? Everyone wants—needs—to know that someone, somewhere, sees him or her as sexy, desirable, beautiful.

Exiting the Oxford Railway Station concourse, I found myself standing at the main entrance, blue steel columns, red window frames, gleaming glass panes, crowds swirling and flowing around me. Cabs sat waiting nearby at the curb opposite the entrance, a huge red double-decker bus chugged past, brakes squealing, and then it was rounding a corner and gone.

I hauled my heavy bags out of the station and into the warm summer air of Oxford, England. Here, at least, it was…underwhelming. Grey skies heavy with impending afternoon rain, tourists boarding a sightseeing bus, a long, low tan building of some kind, one of the outlying colleges, perhaps.

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